One night with GM

The fighting of the tribes subsided; within distant
The battle noise and the voice of the military trumpets are not heard;
From heavenly heights, at the sound of slender lyres,
A light world descends on the dark earth.
It is finished! .. Russian Tsar, you have achieved a glorious goal!
The haughty ones flew to their homeland;
Just ahead among the banners of countless friends
The crowned giant in mighty audacity
He walked menacingly towards death, drew the chains behind him:
A fiery sword flashed beyond the smoky Moscow!
The destroyer star has gone out in eternal darkness,
And the fiery crown faded on his brow!
The son of happiness shuddered, and, abandoned by fate,
He did not see the Russian land under him.
Runs ... and revenge thunder flew after him;
And the proud fell from the throne ... and rose again ... and no!

To you, our brave king, praise, thanks!
When the shelves of enemies covered the distance,
Taking up arms in armor, putting on a feathered helmet,
Kneeling before the highest altar,
You drew a scolding sword and swore a holy oath
Protect your native country from the yoke.
We have heeded this oath; and proud hearts
In fiery delight they flew after their father
And with a fatal vengeance they burned and trembled;
And the Rossi before the enemy is a stronghold of formidable steel!.,

"To the swords!" - there was a click, and rushed like a whirlwind,
The banners, with a rustle, fluttered in the wind;
Brother hugged his brother; and they gave a hand to the dear ones
Young warriors for sad parting;
They fought. A fierce battle flared up freedom,
And death grabbed them with a cold hand! ..
And I ... in the distance of thunder, in the shadow of your reliable ...
I blossomed quietly, carefree, serene!
Alas! I was not judged by the mysterious limit
Fight for you under a hail of enemy arrows!
Sons of Borodin, oh heroes of Kulm!
I saw how your lines flew to the battle;
He hurried after the brothers with an enthusiastic soul.
Why didn’t I shed blood on the abuse?
Why, clutching a sword with an infant hand,
Covered with wounds, I did not fall before you
And did not rest glory under the wing in the morning?
Why wasn’t you a witness of great deeds?

Oh, how majestic, immortal, you have appeared,
When he rushed to the strong one with his sons;
And, lifting the chela from the gloom of the coffins,
Nations fallen under the burden of fetters
The heavy chain shook with delight
And with timid joy they asked each other:
“Are we really free? .. Is it possible that the terrible fell? ..
Who is brave? Who rebelled in thunder in the north? .. "
And Europe bowed down the old head,
The king-savior surrounded the knee
With a hand freed from bo***ge,
And the rebellious power has disappeared before you!

And now you have returned to your sons, O our king,
And the edge of midnight lit up with delight!
Incline a full gaze on your people of humility -
All faces shine with joy, love,
Hearken - the good news is everywhere,
Everywhere a proud clique of merriment is heard;
There is noise in the haystacks, triumph shines everywhere,
And you are among the crowd, a deity of Russia!
Your squads fly to meet the leader of victories.
Old man, happy age of Catherine's fun,
Looks at you with a silent tear.
You are ours, about the Russian tsar! leave the steel helmet,
And the formidable sword of war, and the shield - our fence;
Pour out before Janus I sacred the cup of peace,
And, crushing swearing with a mighty hand,
Universe of autumn with the desired silence! ..
And golden times of calm will come,
Will cover the helmets of rust, and the arrows are red-hot,
Hidden in their quivers, they will forget their flight;
A happy peasant, not knowing stormy troubles,
The plow, sophisticated by the world, will drag along the fields;
The ships are flying, they are shielded by trade,
They will cut the free ocean with feed,
And the young sons of the warlike Slavs
They will indulge in calm idleness with vexation,
And silently they will gather around the elder once,
A greedy rumor will bow, and an old crutch
And the camp, and the military formation, and the distant forest with the hill
On the ashes he will draw slowly in front of them,
With words of truth, free, simple,
They will revive the glory of past years in stories
And bless the good king in tears.

Elvina, dear friend, come give me your hand,
I fade, stop the heavy sleep of life;
Tell me ... will I see, for a long parting
Am I condemned by fate?

Will each other never look at each other?
Or are my days covered with eternal darkness?
Will the morning never find us
In the arms of love?

Elvina! Why in the late hours of the night
I can't hug you with delight
Eyes are full of longing for sweetheart
And tremble with passion?

And in dumb joy, in the bliss of pleasure
Your sweet whisper and a quiet groan to listen,
And quietly in humble darkness for the bliss of awakening
To fall asleep near the darling?

“You are sad; confess what's wrong with you. "
- I love you, my friend! - "But who captivated you?"
“She.” “Who’s it? Glidera eh, Chloe, Leela? "
- Oh no! - "To whom are you sacrificing your soul?"
- Ah! her! - “You are modest, friend of heart!
But why are you so upset?
And who's to blame? Spouse, father, of course ... "
- Not that, my friend! - "But what then!" “I’m not him.

You are rich, I am very poor;
You are a prose writer, I am a poet;
You are blush, like poppies,
I am like death, and skinny and pale.
Without ever having worries,
You live in a huge house;
I'm in the midst of sorrow and trouble
I spend my days on the straw.
You eat sweetly every day
Pulling guilt free
And you are often lazy
Give the necessary debt to nature;
I'm from a stale piece
From raw and fresh water,
Sazhen for a hundred from the attic
For the need I run known.
Surrounded by a crowd of slaves
With a formidable gaze of despotism,
Afedron you are your fat
You wipe it with a calico;
I'm a sinful hole
I do not indulge in children's fashion
And Khvostov's tough ode,
Even though I frown, I do it.

By the side of the sea, a green oak;
Golden chain on tom oak:
And day and night, the cat is a scientist
Everything goes round and round in chains;
Goes to the right - the song starts
To the left - he says a fairy tale.
There are miracles: there the devil wanders,
The mermaid sits on the branches;
There on unknown paths
Traces of unseen beasts;
The hut is there on chicken legs
Stands without windows, without doors;
There the forest and the valley are full of visions;
There the waves will rush about the dawn
On a sandy and empty shore,
And thirty beautiful knights
In succession, clear waters come out,
And their uncle is with them the sea;
There the prince in passing
Captivates the formidable king;
There in the clouds in front of the people
Through forests, across seas
The sorcerer carries the hero;
In the dungeon there the princess grieves,
And the brown wolf serves her faithfully;
There is a stupa with Baba Yaga
It walks, walks by itself,
There, Tsar Kashchei languishes over gold;
There is a Russian spirit ... there is a smell of Russia!
And there I was, and I drank honey;
By the sea I saw a green oak;
Sitting under him, and a scientist cat
He told me his tales.

Pushkin spent six years at the Tsarskoye Selo Lyceum, which opened on October 19, 1811. Here the young poet experienced the events of the Franco-Russian War of 1812. Here for the first time his poetic gift was opened and highly appreciated. Memories of the years spent at the Lyceum, of the lyceum fraternity, remained forever in the soul of the poet. [20]

Among Pushkin's lyceum teachers was Professor of Moral and Political Sciences OP Kunitsyn, who studied at the University of Göttingen, who was close to many future Decembrists. Pushkin remained grateful to Kunitsyn for the rest of his life. [21] He is the only lyceum teacher to whom Pushkin repeatedly addressed in his poems.

Alexander's nanny was Arina Rodionovna, to whom he kept a touching, loving attitude for the rest of his life, dedicated poems to her, and mentioned her many times in his letters. In early childhood, Alexander was a fat, clumsy, sedentary and silent child. All this led his mother to despair, and she "almost forcibly took him for a walk вала forced him to run." However, by the age of seven, there was no sign of obesity and malaise, "he became lively and mischievous." [19] The future poet usually spent the summer months of 1805-1810 with his grandmother's mother, Maria Alekseevna Hannibal (1745-1818, nee Pushkina, from another branch of the family), in the village of Zakharov near Moscow, near Zvenigorod. Early childhood impressions were reflected in the first experiments of Pushkin's poems, written a little later ("The Monk", 1813; "Bova", 1814), in lyceum poems "Letter to Judas" (1815), "Dream" (1816). The grandmother wrote the following about her grandson:
Left paws "I don't know what will come out of my eldest grandson. The boy is smart and eager for books, and learns poorly, rarely when his lesson passes order; then do not stir it, that you do not drive to play with children, then suddenly it unfolds and diverges so much that you can not restrain it: from one extreme to another rushes, he has no middle ground.

His paternal grandfather Lev Alexandrovich - Artillery Colonel, Guards Captain. His father was Sergei Lvovich Pushkin (1767-1848), a secular wit and amateur poet. Pushkin's mother was Nadiya Osipivna (1775-1836), granddaughter of Hannibal. His paternal uncle, Vasyl Lvovich (1766-1830), was a famous poet from Karamzin's circle. Of the children of Serhiy Lvovich and Nadiya Osypivna, apart from Oleksandr, his daughter Olga (married to Pavlyshchev, 1797-1868) and son Lev (1805-1852) survived.

Alexander Pushkin's origins come from the branched untitled noble family of Pushkin, which, according to genealogical legend, originates from the "honest man" (Russian "honest husband") of the Ratsha [11] [~ 3] Pushkin repeatedly wrote about his pedigree in poetry and prose; he saw in his ancestors an example of a true "aristocracy", an ancient family that honestly served the fatherland, but did not win the favor of the rulers and the "persecuted". More than once he turned (including in art form) to the image of his maternal great-grandfather - the African Abram Petrovich Hannibal, who became a servant and pupil of Peter I, and then a military engineer and general

Alexander Sergeyevich Pushkin (Russian: Александр Серге́евич Пушкин; May 26 (June 6) 1799, Moscow, Russian Empire - January 29 (February 10) 1837, St. Petersburg, Russian Empire) - Russian poet, playwright and novelist who founded the Russian realistic direction, critic and theorist of literature, historian, publicist; one of the most authoritative literary figures of the first third of the XIX century.
Even during Pushkin's lifetime, his reputation as Russia's greatest national poet was established. [9] [10] Pushkin is considered the founder of modern n literary language.